


Surface Tension

by givemeunicorns



Series: MCU tumblr prompts [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't the ideal arrangement, Bucky showing up without warning on Steve's couch or at his kitchen table, but something and Steve was too afraid of breaking it to push. He give's Bucky the phone anyway, knowing it will probably never get used. So no one is more surprised than Steve when it rings before the sun's up on an a cool Tuesday morning, Steve's heart seizes up at the quiet question, can you come get me?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surface Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: stucky, "can you come get me?"
> 
> Disclaimer: i don't own these characters and i make no money

It wasn't an arrangement Steve particularly liked, but he knew at the end of the day it wasn't his choice. Six months after the fall of Shield, Bucky had shown up on Steve's couch, unannounced. He'd been thinner, paler than Steve remembered, too soft spoken and he didn't smile. Still, he was lucid and stable, his clothes relatively clean and warm, if well worn. Steve had been startled to say the least. For months he and Sam had searched and searched but found nothing but bread crumbs that lead no where. Bucky hadn't wanted to be found, and with the government breathing down their necks, with every move they'd made, Steve had called the search off. Their records made them safe, but if someone like Talbot got a chance to snatch Bucky, they'd have him strapped to a table in a lab and Steve couldn't deal with that, so he had called of the search. He went home. Months of waiting and worrying, combing the news for anything that could relate to his friend, then suddenly, here he was, sitting crosslegged on Steve's couch.

They'd talked for a long time about a little of everything. The man infront of him answered to the name Bucky the same way Steve had always answered to Grant. Familiar, tolerable but uncomfortable, like an ill fitting piece of clothing. Steve hd asked what Bucky wanted to be called instead; Bucky said he didn't know, but he did not want to be called the asset anymore, which was a start, Steve supposed. He remembered bits and pieces of his life before the war, during it, and after. They didn't talk much about that though. He stayed long enough that first time for Steve to make hot chocolate before he disappeared out the window and over the roof again. Steve never know when to expect him, sometimes it was few days between visits, sometimes it was as much as a month. But it got easier. Steve tried to fill him in with stories, trying not to hold to tightly to the spark of hope that lit up his chest when Bucky would throw in some bit of commentary or a inquire about a small detail, the color of a girl's hair, the shade of lipstick his mother wore, things that Steve had all but forgotten himself. He was blank in many ways, but sometimes he almost smiled. They didn't talk about where was staying or what he was doing or how he was getting by, though sometimes he would offer Steve some no nondescript assurance that he was well. Steve knew what occupied the bulk of Bucky's time, he'd seen the bodies. The government could only do so much to sniff out Hyrda's remaining rats, Steve and the others could only do so much with them watching. He didn't push, to afraid that reaching would only chase Bucky away. Even after the months turned into a year, there was a cool distance between them that left an aching under Steve's ribs that he couldn't shake but he was used to that, from another life, from another love too. Bucky had a lot more freedom to pursue them, to destroy them, and as much reason as anyone to do it. Still, it never got any easier to watch Bucky slid off his window sill or walk out his door. Bucky had to do what Bucky was going to do, all Steve could do was be there to offer support, Sam reminded him constantly. Steve knew that, but every time Bucky slipped back out his window, he feared in his soul it would be for the last time. He'd offered his spare room a dozen times, only to have it denied. Bucky had taken the cell phone Steve had offered him with much persuasion, stating that he could get one for himself if it became necessary. Steve had had to explain again the concept of a gift. Bucky had raised and eyebrow but tucked it away in his pocket none the less. Steve didn't really expect Bucky to use it, but it helped him sleep better at night.

He was lacing up his sneakers for his morning run, when he got the call. He assumed it was business. No one called at 4:30 if it wasn't world saving stuff, and Sam almost never cancelled their morning runs. He reached for the phone without looking at the number, expecting Natasha's voice on the other end of the line.

“Rogers,” he answered.

“Steve?” a familiar voice said on the other end of the line. Not Natasha's but Bucky's. He sounded exhausted and Steve's heart started to thunder under his ribs.

“Bucky? How's it going?” he asked gently.

“I need a favor,” Bucky said quietly.

“Anything,” Steve answered, perhaps a bit too quickly.

“Can you come get me?”

Steve froze for a moment, blood running cold. There was an edge to Bucky's voice that Steve had heard in a life time, exhausted, wrung out, hurting, and edge of fear in his tone. Steve had heard that tone before, after he'd pulled his friend off Zola's table the first time.

“Of course. Where are you?” Steve asked, already reaching for his jacket.

“Upstate. Mark Three Motel in a little town called Pelliran. Room 23.”

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, snatching up his car keys, very glad he'd given into Natasha's badgering that he needed a car.

Bucky was quiet for a long moment.

“I'm safe,” he answered.

“But are you okay?” Steve pushed, unable to keep the concern out of his voice.

Bucky took a deep breath.

“I will be”

“Okay. I'm on my way,” he said, yanking the door open hard enough the hinges creaked.

“Thank you,” Bucky said quietly, and the line went dead.

Steve called Sam as he pulled onto the highway, letting the car's GPS lead him. Sometimes, the future was great that way.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked, when Steve finished walking him through the morning's events.

“I don't know. He sounded exhausted, which could really be the whole of it. I think he forgets to eat sometimes, like I'll offer food and he look confused, like he forgot that was something his body needed. Maybe it's just gotten away from him or something.”

“Maybe,” Sam offered supportively, “If his handler took care of those basic needs, nutrition and the like, maybe it's sometimes a thing he leaves out, like you said, forget. It's plausible.”

“But?”

Sam sighed.

“You don't me to fill that in for you Rogers. I know you're imagining a lot worse scenarios than I am. You want to talk about it?”

Steve huffed.

“What if he got in over his head and got hurt? What if he, I don't know, freaked out or something? What if he hurt someone innocent? What if he hurt himself?”

“You'll just have to find out when you get there, man. Just remember, he was tired, maybe hurt, maybe scared, and he called you. He trusted you enough to be vulnerable I front of you. That's something. You still got the med kit I gave you?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied, trying his best to toe only slightly above the speed limit, despite the gnawing anxiety in his gut. There were enough people in charge who wanted his head on a plate that they would probably find a way to throw his ass in jail over a speeding ticket if they could.

“Call me if you need anything okay?”

“Okay,” Steve sighed, remembering once again how lucky he was to have stumbled across Sam, running on the mall that day.

Four hours stretched out into forever as the sun came up and he turned off the interstate, gave him to much time to think. He knew in his mind Bucky could never be the way he had been, could never be the sharp eyed, smiling boy he'd known. He'd accepted that long before Bucky fell. The war, what had happened to him until Zola's watchful eye, had changed him. Whoever he was now had a lifetime of darkness and blank spaces to account for. But there was sliver of hope that lived in Steve's chest, that even if the man couldn't be the Bucky he'd known, he could still learn to trust Steve, learn to love him. He knew it was silly, childish even, but there it was. He'd loved that boy since before he could remember, but back then he'd never held on to the hope. When he'd found Peggy, found someone he loved and could adore as brightly and openly as he wanted, some one who could love him back, things had seemed brighter. Seventy years in the ice had dashed those hopes. She loved him and mourned him and carried him in her heart, yes, but she'd found someone else to love. She'd moved on, lived a whole and beautiful life. And here he was still stuck in the feelings of a life time ago.

He looked at his phone, fingers itching to call Bucky again, to check in on him. Fear and worry sat like a stone in his stomach but he hesitated. He didn't know why Bucky needed him, just that he did. That trust was fragile and Steve was terrified that if he pushed too hard it would shatter. Sam had reminded him, time and again, that it was okay to feel that way, that he was still human, that he was still healing. He said Bucky was finally being given some freedom, some choice. He was figuring things out, showing he could handle it, and so he needed to be given the space to do so, to discover he could make his own decisions, and what that felt like.

He found the motel with relative ease. There wasn't much else in this town but a grocery store and a gas station. Steve felt the hair on the back of his neck raise, just looking at the empty streets. Above the tree line, he could see a curl of dark smoke. A mangy dog trotted at the edge of the pavement. Nothing seemed out of place, but Steve couldn't shake the ominous something that might be lurking in this place. Bucky had come here for a reason, looking at the black smog above the naked trees, Steve was sure he could hazard a guess.

He by passed the motel office, seeing an old man asleep behind the desk as he drove by. Room 23 was strategically placed at the end of the walk way on the second floor, out of the direct sight of the office window, a little further away from the other rooms. He knocked firmly on the door, and called inside.

“Bucky,” he called, seeing the curtains closed and the room quite, “It's Steve.”

He waited a long moment but there was no answer, the stone of worry weigh heavy in he gut again. He knocked again and the heavy door shuttered under his fist.

“Bucky,” he called a little loud, unable to keep the edge of fear out of his voice, “Please open the door.”

He caught the sound of movement, the rattle of a chain and snap of a lock being turned. He felt like he could breath again when Bucky's face appeared around the edge of the door. He was guant and pale, but he was standing, and looking at Steve with relief. It was the most emotion Steve had seen on his face since he'd been back. Steve slipped inside, forcing his hands in his pockets to quell the need to wrap his friend in his arms. Bucky still struggled with being touched.

But looking at him now, Steve wanted nothing more in the world than to gather his friend to his chest and hold him there. In the weak light of the room's single, lopsided lamp, Bucky's skin looked clammy and almost ghoulish if it weren't for the bright flush across his cheeks. His shoulder stooped like an old man, and he clung to the door handle as he shut and locked it behind him, slipped the chain back in place. There was knife sheath tucked in the back of his dark jeans and Steve was willing to guess he had half a dozen or more hidden on his person, but at the moment, that thought didn't strike the same caution and confidence for Bucky's wellbeing in Steve as it usually did. Bucky leaned back against the door like his knees weren't enough to keep him up.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, taking in Bucky's sucken eyes, the arm held tight and protective around his torso, “What happened to you?”

Bucky shrugged, and it looked like it hurt, but he seemed too tired to care.

“I went into a mission underprepared,” he replied, “I underestimated their level of organization, I made a mistake, and I paid for it.”

“So the smoke I saw over the trees,” Steve asked, taking a seat on the sagging bed, “That was you?”

Bucky nodded.

“An old coal power plant, they've been using it to produce Hydra tech since the sixties, even after it closed down as an active plant. I killed the agents underground there, lit it up to make it look like an accident. My tracks are covered,” he assured Steve, and that hit him like a blow in the chest, hearing Bucky report to him like he was a handler.

“How bad are you hurt?” he asked tightly and Bucky scowled, pushing off the door, unsteady on his feet. Steve rose, ready to catch him, but he regained his footing, stepping back from Steve's waiting hands and watching his cautiously. Steve held his palms up in surrender and took a step back. Bucky lifted his dark hoodie, face tight with pain. There was gauze wrapped around stomach, a dark, bloody below his ribs.

Steve hissed between his teeth.

“Shit Bucky, what happened?”

“Gunman, hiding among the dead. Shot me when my back was turned. 9mm. Went though clean. “ he said tightly, pulling his sweat shirt back down. Steve could see the fine hair on his temples sticking to his skin with sweat.

“Maybe you should lay down Buck,” Steve said carefully, “Let me take a look at you. I got a med kit out in the car. Then we can get you out of here.”

Bucky nodded, and Steve took another cautious step towards him.

“Can I touch you?” Steve asked cautiously, and recived another nod in response.

Gently, he bushed back Bucky's hair, pressed his fingers against Bucky's pulse, the back of his other hand against Bucky's cheek. His skin was too warm, and his pulse too slow.

“You've got a fever. How long have you been here?”

“Three days,” Bucky sighed, leaning into Steve until his forehead rested on the taller man's shoulder.

Steve could feel him shaking. He wanted to hug him, but he was too afraid of hurting him, too afraid the confinement would cause him to panic. Still, he draped an arm loosely around Bucky's shoulders, slow and careful enough to let Bucky pull away if he wanted. To his surprise, Bucky let out a deep sigh, and leaned further into Steve's chest, all the strength going out of him in that single breath. Steve had to get an arm around his waist to keep him upright.

“I'm tired Steve,” he sighed, his voice tight, exhausted and it dug under Steve's ribs like a knife.

“I know Buck. I'm here,” Steve said kindly, stroking Bucky's sweat damp hair before he could stop himself, “You're safe. Rest.”

 

 

 


End file.
